Poem about my face getting invaded by a parasite. |
Wart. There’s quite enough that’s wrong with me. Stuff you folk can’t help but see. Passing peepers more than not Mistake this wart I’ve got for snot. Can’t alight on which is worse; The nit-picker or kindly nurse Like a hinky hanky might disperse This parasitic, karmic curse. Firmly rooted, smug it stands. From its snotty dug-out, in command. Tugging gazes, birthing doubt, An interloper in my snout Which no myope could overlook. An artifice, a face forsook. ‘You’ve got something on your nose’ I don’t, I’ve got a dumpling beast that grows And shrinks upon the moisture’s whim Like a boisterous, nasal midget limb. I’ve concocted an unnatural tilt, Gesticulating ticks of guilt To trick and stay the awful grub. Downplay its kinship to a shrub. Chicaning mirrors, slick contortions Minimizing its proportions Or hide it, feebly to insist That panoramas don’t exist And the proffered edge for all to see Is one as edifice'd by me. But that’s just ego cotton wool. It’s that turd inside that swimming pool. It’s that crater you can see from space. It’s the occupation of my face. It’s the cynosure of ruined front It’s that guy upstairs who’s just a cunt. It’s Bigley, it’s a cock-fight fray. It’s impossible to look away. It’s seizure of the not much cop The receiver of some whistle-stop. Abrupt and bare and always there. It erupts straight through my nostril hair. A leviathan come up for air. It’s a forked and jutting self-aware Pronouncement of my soul’s despair. |